


betrayal of the worst sort

by miss_belivet



Series: the wonder poison archive [8]
Category: Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Ice Cream, Partner Betrayal, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Battle, Wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 04:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_belivet/pseuds/miss_belivet
Summary: All Diana wants after saving four of London's city blocks from terrorists is her favorite pair of leggings and a bowl of ice cream. What she gets instead is a villainous wife who regularly tests her limits.(Reading the previous works in this series is not necessary to enjoy this one!)





	betrayal of the worst sort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueJay_Silvertongue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueJay_Silvertongue/gifts).



_“Four city blocks.”_

The harsh judgement in that familiar, hoarse voice is evident even as the Bluetooth that connects Diana’s phone to her car’s stereo system crackles as she drives through a tunnel.

Diana tries not to smile despite herself. She is hardly exhausted by the day’s events—more terrorists, more ill-planned schemes, more bombs—but listening to her nemesis-turned-wife rant about the foolishness of the attempt over the phone is just what she needs to destress.

“I could have decimated this entire city in one blow a full century ago—when nuclear weapons were not even a twinkle in Oppenheimer's eye!—and these English idiots want to return the world to the Dark Ages by blowing up _four city blocks.”_

“Yes, and who stopped you then?”

Isabel Maru scoffs, and Diana has to suppress a giggle. “This is not about us, Diana!”

“Isn’t it?”

“No!”

Diana finally laughs, and she hears a quiet, reluctant snicker on the other side of the line as she parks her car in front of the valet and transfers the conversation to her phone. Although she is softened by Diana’s laughter, Isabel is fuming again as she hands over her keys, walks into the lobby of their apartment building, and waves at the doorman. Her armor is stiff beneath her coat, her sword, shield, and boots tucked away in a cumbersome duffel bag, and she cannot wait to discard all of it in favor of the sinful new yoga pants she found hidden in the clearance section of a department store last week.

“...Are you even listening to me?”

“I am always listening to you, my darling.”

A fed-up groan is her only reply; Isabel knows as well as she does what it means when she sugarcoats the truth like that. She has been listening to Isabel, of course, but the thought of her leggings and the pint of mint ice cream in the freezer might have sidetracked her train of thought.

The elevator dings as it arrives, and she steps into the sleek, mirrored box, crossing her fingers that Isabel will not hear the connection crackle and fade again as she shoots up the side of the building toward the penthouse suite.

“But really, the Dark Ages? As if the average human is not already superglued to a smartphone at all hours of the day! Do they also plan to reintroduce the bubonic plague? Honestly.”

The elevator stops and dings again, and Diana swipes the keycard that opens the door into the apartment’s entryway. She murmurs something agreeable into the phone and then hits the big, red _End Call_ button, calling out to her wife to announce her return. Diana expects her to come whirling around a corner—her hands in the air, her hair wild, her eyes bright, her voice raised as she derides Diana’s latest foes—but Isabel says nothing.

Diana should have known that silence was dangerous.

Silence was _always_ dangerous where her wife was concerned.

A shuffling from the kitchen catches her attention, the suction of the refrigerator opening breaking the silence, and Isabel finally speaks, low, not meant for Diana’s ears.

But Diana is a goddess, a fact that her wife often conveniently forgets.

_“Damn it all.”_

In a half-second, Diana is in the doorway, her jaw dropped as she stares at the scene of betrayal playing out before her.

Isabel is eating _her ice cream,_ trying to sneak the nearly empty, half-melted pint back into the freezer, a dripping spoonful still in hand.

Isabel freezes, the spoon halfway to her mouth. Diana’s hand twitches toward her pocket; it would be so easy to whip out the lasso, to restrain Isabel or to pull the ice cream toward her. They stare at one another, both incredulous, for a long, tense moment.

And as quickly as she arrived, Diana turns around. She snaps her wallet up off of the small console table in the entryway, presses the button to reopen the elevator doors, and, with some thought and strength of will, retrieves her phone from her pocket instead of the lasso.

It is an act of mercy on par with throwing the tank away from Isabel’s slight, trembling form in 1918, and she hears the same breathless murmur of relief from her wife as she enters the elevator and begins dialing a number.

Isabel finally picks up when she is in the lobby again.

“I am going to the grocery store, and _you_ are cooking dinner tonight. What do you need me to bring back?”

**Author's Note:**

> It just happened, I swear! BlueJay's terrific fic, Comes and Goes (In Waves), inspired this little prequel that I wrote in just under an hour, so please take it as an early Christmas gift.


End file.
